


I hate you(I love you)

by twistedsky



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedsky/pseuds/twistedsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season one finale. The aim of the game is to win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I hate you(I love you)

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Warnings for sex, alcohol use and canonical murder.

It escalates quickly.

Michaela’s vicious, scraping her nails against Laurel’s skin, making sure that whoever else she’s screwing will _know_.

There are only so many lies a person can tell, she knows, before they get caught.

Relationships fall by the wayside, and everything builds to an intense crescendo, and Michaela stands there, wondering whether she’s made the right decision.

Yes, she decides.

After all, the aim of the game is to _win_.

~~

When Laurel slides her engagement ring over to her, Michaela’s breath catches in her throat.

The entire time, she’s been ripping herself apart, and for what?

Well, she thinks, not anymore. At least she’s not going to prison because of the _ring_ , anyway.

Michaela meets Laurel’s eyes, and Laurel barely blinks, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t show any sign of weakness.

“Well,” Michaela says. “I guess you got what you wanted.”

Laurel looks away then, redirecting her attention to her beer. “Next round’s on me,” she says, and Michaela snorts.

“More like the rest of the night’s,” Michaela corrects. “Get me drunk, and then we’ll figure out how you’re going to make this up to me.”

Laurel lifts an eyebrow, then turns to get the bartender’s attention.

Michaela pastes on a smile, hyping herself up inwardly. She’s worked too hard for this, and if this is all she gets, then it’s going to be good.

This could be their last night, after all. Rebecca could go to the police at any time, and then their lives will fall apart completely.

~~

Michaela screws Laurel in the bathroom like the backwater trash people say she is.

They understand nothing, Michaela thinks drunkly. This one, primal need cuts through and sobers her enough to give her complete focus on the task at hand.

This is not patient, or kind, or civilized—this is trying to make Laurel come in a bathroom stall while there are other people in the bathroom.

The more people, the more shameless she is.

Michaela’s never been with a woman before, but she knows what _she_ likes, and guesses at the rest.

Laurel’s so wet, Michaela’s fingers slide in almost painfully easily, and Laurel groans. Michaela’s soft and sensual, and hard and demanding—this is who she is, and this is how she makes Laurel scream.

After, when Laurel’s mouth is on Michaela’s clit, and Michaela’s biting her cheek to stop from being too loud(as a matter of _pride_ ) so hard that it bleeds, she thinks Laurel must have practice at this.

She comes hard and fast, and then collapses against the stall wall loudly, and she giggles when someone in the bathroom mutters disgustedly about them.

Laurel just looks at her, a very slight smile on her face, and something dangerous in her eyes.

This should be it—her hatesex in the bathroom stall, something she’s always wanted to have. A check off her bucket list. Or, well, her _going to jail_ list.

Potato, tomato, or some crap like that, she thinks, still drunk.

“I’ll get you home,” Laurel says, and Michaela shrugs dramatically, even though she’s going for a cool chick vibe.

She fails, but this only serves to make Laurel smile, and that burning in her belly that had started the second that she’d kissed Laurel has turned into an inferno.

~~

Laurel’s not supposed to cross the threshold; this is how this stays normal, how they don’t have to talk about it tomorrow, how Michaela continues to hold her head high without regrets.

“Can you—“ Michaela hears herself ask. She hesitates then, her mind catching up with her mouth.

If this is her last night, maybe she should want to be alone. If she goes to prison, she’s not going to be alone for a long time.

Maybe she should run now. Rebuild her life. Find a new name, a new _plan_.

If she leaves now, she loses almost everything.

If she stays, she might lose more.

Decisions, decisions.

Tick tock, tick tock.

“Can you stay?” Michaela asks now, making a choice.

“Are you sure?” Laurel asks.

They aren’t talking about whatever’s going on here tonight. Michaela hasn’t yelled, hasn’t cut Laurel to shreds.

Michaela hadn’t even mentioned what had gone on in that bathroom on the cab ride home.

This is crossing a line, but hey, Michaela thinks, they still don’t have to talk.

“Yes,” Michaela says firmly. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

Maybe she should want to, but the truth is that if she’s there alone, she’ll stay up all night staring at the ceiling considering aliases, or staring at her computer contemplating new places she could go.

She’d panic until she finally falls asleep, completely exhausted. And then, if the police do come, she’s not going to be beautiful and put together, she’s going to be a disaster who looks _guilty_.

This much, she knows.

Michaela walks in and steps aside, and then shuts the door after Laurel walks in too.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Michaela asks dryly.

“A last rite?” Laurel jokes, and Michaela could get touchy or angry, but instead she just lifts an eyebrow. “Sorry.”

“Mhm,” Michaela says noncommittally. “So, movie?”

“Michaela—“ Laurel starts to say, but then she stops. She lets out a deep breath. “I’m worried about you.”

Michaela winces. “Oh, Laurel,” she says, recovering and letting her face settle into a fake, comfortable smile. “And here we were, doing so well.”

Laurel stiffens, and Michaela laughs. “I should go,” Laurel says now.

Michaela shakes her head, and puts her remote down. Clearly, rewatching her favorite movies before she possibly ends up in jail isn’t on the menu tonight.

She sashays closer to Laurel, knowing exactly what she’s doing. She reaches out her hand and gently caresses Laurel’s wrist. “So, do you want to make this a night to remember or what?” she asks, and it’s as much a challenge as anything else.

And Laurel can’t resist a challenge any more than Michaela can.

~~

They wake up the next morning, tangled together.

Michaela’s overheating, so she tosses her blankets onto Laurel, who is completely buried in them now. It’s actually almost funny, maybe even sort of cute, but she doesn’t comment on it.

She snorts though, despite herself, and then she feels Laurel’s rustling under the blankets.

“What’s so funny?” Laurel asks.

“Nothing,” Michaela replies, fighting back full-on laughter. She almost succeeds.

She fails, and she lets herself laugh. Someone who doesn’t know her might say she even sounds happy.

“Well,” she says finally. “Since we haven’t been arrested yet, do you want to get breakfast?”

Laurel stays quiet, and doesn’t respond for a moment. “Rebecca was there,” Laurel says softly. “She’s afraid, but she should be afraid of that too. This could go wrong for her just as easily as it could for the rest of us.”

“It already has,” Michaela points out. “Maybe she thinks she doesn’t have anything left to lose.”

“If you believe that, then why are you still here? Why haven’t you gone on the run or something?”

It’s a good question, and the truth is—the truth is, she doesn’t want to leave.

She’s put a lot of time and energy into reinventing herself—shaving off pieces of who she was, reassembling puzzle pieces.

Michaela doesn’t answer, just opens her closet door and pulls out clothing for the day. Something cute, professional, _innocent_.

“I’ve got class at eleven,” Michaela says now. It’s only seven-thirty.

“I’ve got six hours of class today, but I don’t start till  two,” Laurel says, sitting up on the bed. “Michaela—“ she says, but then she stops, like she doesn’t know what to say. “I’d love to get breakfast.”

“Good,” Michaela chirps out. “Because I’m starving.” She looks back over her shoulder at Laurel and smiles. “Shower first?”

~~

“I hate you,” Michaela tells Laurel, reaching out a finger and pressing it against Laurel’s lips.

Laurel’s sitting on her bed, and Michaela’s legs are on either side of hers, spread wide so that she can pull the sexy, almost intimidating look off.

“I’m aware,” Laurel says, but she doesn’t apologize. Laurel raises her chin, dares Michaela back down.

Michaela gently nudges Laurel so that she’s lying down flat on the bed, then lifts herself up on the bed. She pushes one knee between Laurel’s legs, spreading them apart.

She caresses the insides of Laurel’s thighs. “I’m going to leave marks here, and here,” she says as matter-of-factly as she would if she were running through an oral presentation for a class.

This’ll just be a slightly different kind of oral.

“You’re all talk,” Laurel taunts, and with a sneak attack, she spins things around so that she’s on top, and kissing Michaela until her eyes go blurry.

 It’s just sex, just some weird fucked up revenge.

It’s not meaningless, but it’s not especially meaningful either.

Laurel lifts her head, and smirks down at her. “Maybe I should do that to you.” She leans down and nips at Michaela’s neck, and she’s rewarded with a breathy moan.

“Try me,” Michaela says, and it’s meant to be menacing, but her voice hiccups during _me_ when Laurel reaches suddenly for the soft, warm, _wet_ space between her legs.

“I will,” Laurel promises.

~~

They carry on like this—every day, even the long ones, so that Michaela and Laurel can fall asleep together, talking about what the world might be like the next day, if _tomorrow_ is the day Rebecca tries to come clean.

They haven’t seen her since that night, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t lying in wait, ready to pounce at any time.

Michaela doesn’t dare suggest that they try to turn on the others. She knows where Laurel’s loyalties lie. She believes in the group above all else, and she would _never_ turn on Wes.

Michaela’s not jealous, exactly, but there’s something in her that’s irritated by Laurel’s ranking, by who holds her absolute trust and loyalty.

She’s going to change that, she decides, twist Laurel all up in knots like she is, and make sure that if no one else is on her side, Laurel is.

Connor might have been a nice teammate, but his bravado has quickly turned to panic, indecision and distraction.

You can’t survive without allies, not in a war.

And this is war.

“Break up with Con,” Michaela says one day while they’re having lunch between classes.

“Excuse me?” Laurel looks like she’s stuck halfway between laughter and surprise.

Michaela trains her gaze on the other woman, then reaches a hand out and places it gently over one of Laurel’s. “You heard me,” she says simply, then pulls her hand away, and goes back to her chicken salad.

Should have gone with turkey, she thinks impassively as Laurel just stares at her. It would have been the healthier choice.

“You don’t call the shots,” Laurel says now. “That’s now how this works.”

“Oh?” Michaela raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Then my pussy is off-limits to you. Along with my mouth, my hands. I’m not the other woman, Laurel.”

“That’s not what this is,” Laurel assures her, then hesitates.

“This,” Michaela says, waving her fork between them. “Isn’t anything.”

“Of course not,” Laurel says. “I’m not breaking up with Con for you.”

“Okay,” Michaela shrugs, like it doesn’t make a difference to her. “If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is.”

“It is,” Laurel insists.

~~

It’s not.

Laurel comes by her apartment, knocking on the door and holding out a bag of Thai food. “I didn’t break up with him _for you_ ,” she says. “I should have done it before.”

“Of course,” Michaela grabs the bag from Laurel, and plops it on the counter, rooting through it. “Excellent.”

She knows who won this round, even if Laurel’s in denial about it.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Laurel repeats, and Michaela just smiles.

“Let’s eat,” Michaela says. “We can discuss your reward later.”

Laurel just shakes her head. “I’m leaving. This isn’t a game, Michaela.”

Sure it is, Michaela thinks.

“Fine,” Michaela says. “Then leave.”

Laurel doesn’t even hesitate, she just walks straight out, leaving the food behind.

Michaela stands there alone, a carton of food open in her hands.

She’s lost her appetite.

She’s feeling a bit like a petulant child now, irritation bubbling under the surface.

She lies in bed that night after forcing down food—we don’t skip meals because of how we feel, because we don’t always know what might happen before the next one. We soldier on, keep up our strength.

This, Michaela knows.

It’s 3am, and she still can’t sleep when she pulls out her phone, and closes her eyes, sighing slightly.

She hits Laurel’s name, then prepares to reach voicemail.

Laurel answers on the first ring. “Yeah?”

She sounds awake, but tired.

Michaela’s not the only one having trouble sleeping.

“Get your ass back over here,” Michaela says jokingly, keeping her tone as light and airy as can be.

The silence stretches out between them now, longer and longer with every moment. Doubt swirls around in Michaela’s mind, and she’s beginning to regret this.

“Please?” she says softly, following her instincts.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Laurel says, and her voice is oddly gentle, or maybe Michaela’s just tired.

~~

“My family’s rich,” Laurel tells her, and Michaela’s not surprised to hear it.

“Mine’s not,” Michaela says, and she thinks _that_ might be far more surprising, though Laurel doesn’t show it on her face.

They continue like this, sharing secrets, and admitting things Michaela normally wouldn’t. Things she hadn’t even told Aiden, if she’s honest. This isn’t a relationship though, it’s something . . . different.

They’re co-conspirators, partners in a much larger series of crimes that seems to grow constantly.

Michaela’s not sure which of them starts it first, but now they’re pushing each other(or, maybe, Michaela thinks as dispassionately as possible, they’re revealing themselves).

It’s almost a game within their game, Michaela thinks, like some sort of emotional chicken.

Or maybe, she thinks, it’s a trust exercise.

If you know who a person is, you can hurt them, but if they know who you are too—well, if you hurt each other, then you both burn. If you don’t, then you have something worth protecting, which makes for far stronger alliances.

This is how Michaela rationalizes it.

The truth is, she’s not sure what this is—part game, part insurance to make sure _she_ never turns out to be the odd man out, part  . . . well, there’s no sense in labeling it, she thinks.

This makes her laugh, because she’s always been fascinated by labels, _driven_ by opportunities to change them through status, wealth, _power_ —and it makes her feel guilty for trying to label Aiden, for trying to make him out to be something he might not have been.

She hasn’t spoken to him since the true end of their relationship, and she’s not sure she wants to.

She’s got far more important things to worry about.

Michaela’s screwing Laurel, but that doesn’t make her a lesbian, of that much she’s sure.

In fact, the sex doesn’t factor into who she is at all.

This, at least, is what she tells herself.

Laurel self-identifies as bisexual, but Michaela’s never even taken that seriously before now. Now, it feels real.

She wonders how many people _feel_ the way they are, and have other people label them incorrectly, insisting that their self-identification is wrong.

And thus, Michaela feels kind of shitty about the whole thing, and refuses to define herself, and definitely refuses to acknowledge that this thing between herself and Laurel could possibly be _real_.

~~

She’s paired up with Connor for an assignment from Keating, and she’s struck by how tired he looks all the time nowadays.

“Lover boy keeping you up all hours of the night?” she teases gently, and Connor looks at her sharply, almost angrily.

“Mind your own goddamn business,” he says, and it’s not a smooth deflection, or a pointed barb, just simple and straightforward.

If they were friends, Michaela might ask him what’s going on, and be concerned.

If they were friends, anyway.

(At this moment, Michaela can’t think of a single person outside of their little murder squad who she actually talks to regularly anymore, and _fuck_ they’re the closest things she has to friends, really and truly.)

“What’s wrong?” she asks now, not bothering to continue the charade, but not bothering with niceties either.

Connor looks at her strangely then, lifting an eyebrow. “Why do you even care?”

She’s about to say she doesn’t, but he looks scared, and _maybe_ she does care, just a little. Oliver’s nice, after all, and if it has to do with him—well, there she goes, rationalizing everything.

They’re sitting in a hallway of a business building, waiting to accost anyone who comes through and ask them all sorts of leading questions, hoping to get some sort of rise or answer out of someone that’ll help their case.

The hall is empty now, except them and the receptionist at the other end of the hall, away from the stairs and elevators where they’re seated.

“I don’t need a reason,” Michaela says now, looking at her fingernails, like it’s not a big deal at all.

Connor hesitates now. “Oliver’s sick.”

“Then take him some chicken noodle soup,” Michaela says, exasperated. He’s acting like this is serious, end of the world _drama_. She rolls her eyes now, and then feels her heart sink at Connor’s next words.

“Not—not sick like that,” Connor whispers softly, and Michaela looks at him sharply.

“Oh crap,” Michaela says. “Is it cancer?”

“It’s not cancer,” Connor tells her, then hesitates again. “It’s not mine to tell,” he says, but he doesn’t really have to at this point, because she can tell it’s serious from the look on his face and his reticence to say what it is.

“I see,” Michaela says, reaching out a hand to pat his shoulder, like that’ll somehow comfort him. She pulls back at the last moment, then sighs. “I’m really sorry to hear that,” she says, and she’s completely sincere.

“Yeah,” Connor sighs. “Me too.”

“Invite him out, if he’s up for it,” Michaela suggests now. “We’ll have a get together. A party. Or, if that’s too much, we can all have dinner at your place or something.”

Connor makes a face. “I don’t know—“

“At least ask him,” Michaela urges. “Sometimes being around people . . . helps.”

Connor nods slightly, and then they go back to sitting silently, staring at the elevator, and waiting to pounce.

Several minutes of silence pass, and then—“So what’s going on between you and Laurel?”

“Nothing,” Michaela denies quickly and fervently. “Why would there be anything going on between me and Laurel?”

Connor raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what I meant, but wow. I just meant you two seem chummy.”

“We’re all chummy,” Michaela says now. “Considering.”

After Rebecca had disappeared, they’d all sworn that they’d stop talking about serious, _end up in jail_ level things in public. A good policy in general, Michaela thinks. One they’d have probably adopted earlier if they hadn’t been so freaked out. She winces now at the thought of _literally talking about committing murder_ in a courthouse.

They’re oddly lucky, Michaela thinks, and now they’re back to being smart too.

“Uh huh,” Connor mutters. “This isn’t some weird girls gone wild stuff, is it?”

Michaela elbows him in the arm then. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of it. After all, apparently we all care about each other now. We’re _friends._ ”

Michaela rolls her eyes, and smiles slightly. “Whatever.”

The elevator dings then, and it’s about to open, and so Michaela focuses on the here and now.

~~

Laurel’s late, and Michaela’s naked and horny. She pulls out her law books and tries to get some work done, but it’s very distracting, you know?

Eventually, she hears the knock at her door, and Michaela grabs her robe, just in case it’s someone else, and wanders over to open it. Luckily it’s Laurel, who pushes past her.

“Rebecca’s dead,” Laurel tells her once she’s shut the door.

Michaela just stands there, awkwardly, unable to process what Laurel’s saying.

“Michaela, did you hear me?” Laurel hisses. “She’s dead.”

“I’m—“ Michaela wonders if she should be happy now. “I have to—“ she runs to her bathroom and throws up.

~~

“Tell me again,” Michaela demands. “Exactly what they said.”

Laurel looks exasperated now, because she’s told Michaela exactly what she heard Annalise and Frank talking about three times already.

“Michaela,” Laurel says, “You’re missing the point.”

“She’s dead,” Michaela replies. “How am I missing the point?”

“We’re safe,” Laurel says. “We’re safe.”

“For now,” Michaela laughs humorlessly. “But for how long? Who did it? Was it them?”

“I don’t know,” Laurel admits. “They sounded—“ she frowns. “Like they were keeping secrets from each other,” Laurel says softly. “It could have been either of them.”

“Or neither,” Michaela says. “There could be other people out there, ready to pounce.”

“We just need to stay focused,” Laurel tells her. “She was going to tell the truth, and now she’s dead. So long as we stay in our corners—“

“You are not that naïve,” Michaela comments now.

Laurel stiffens now, and a hard mask falls over her face. “I’m trying to keep us alive.”

 _Us_ , Michaela thinks. Yeah, sure.

“Maybe you killed her,” Michaela says now. “And you’re telling me so that I’ll be too afraid to ever try to tell the truth.”

Something flickers over Laurel’s face now—pain, hurt, maybe? Michaela feels a prickle of guilt, but this isn’t her fault.

Laurel’s a good liar, and this could all be part of the larger scam.

Protect _us_ , Laurel had said, but Michaela’s not sure she believes her—she wants to trust in that, but how can she?

“I didn’t kill Rebecca,” Laurel says now, and there’s something angry and dark in her eyes that Michaela’s never quite seen before.

“Laurel—“ Michaela hesitates, and doesn’t know what to say.

“I need you to believe me,” Laurel says, and the mask falls away, and she actually looks vulnerable now, like she’s raw and real.

It could be another game, and Michaela wouldn’t be surprised.

It doesn’t feel like one though.

Michaela doesn’t trust easily, but if she can trust anyone at all, she needs to trust Laurel, right here and now.

Does she?

Laurel leans forward and slides hair out of Michaela’s eyes, then looks into their depths. Michaela wonders if she’s searching for something, or trying to prove something, or both.

“Believe me,” Laurel says, this time more firmly, like a demand almost. “Believe me,” she says again, like a request, a _plea._

She kisses Michaela now, first softly, slow and steady and _long_ until they break apart breathlessly.

Michaela grabs her hand, and pulls her back to bed, where Laurel presses her down on her back, and kisses every inch of exposed skin.

Laurel whispers it again against Michaela’s skin— _believe me, believe me_ , like some sort of mantra.

Laurel undoes Michaela’s rob, and presses her lips between Michaela’s breasts, then covers Michaela’s breasts with her hands, playing gently with her nipples.

“Please,” Laurel says, and Michaela’s not sure if it’s a demand or a question, but Michaela reaches up and puts her hands on both sides of Laurel’s face, and pulls her down for a kiss.

“I believe you,” Michaela promises when they pull apart, and Laurel smiles, and in that moment Michaela really, truly does.

Michaela doesn’t know if there are more lies between them, but right now it feels like there aren’t.

And then, they don’t talk anymore with words—just touch.

Her heart feels calm and full at first, but an insidious panic makes its way in.

It’s _terror_ over what this, and what this means(because it means more than it was ever supposed to, and that leaves Michaela feeling naked and vulnerable in ways far beyond simple physicality).

~~

Michaela doesn’t have to ask to know that Laurel told Wes about Rebecca, and she waits for the inevitable confrontation. She knows that if it’s truly bad, then it’ll blow up, but if it’s resolvable, then she’ll probably never hear about it, unless he tells Laurel.

Laurel would tell her, Michaela thinks.

She would.

This, she thinks, is trust.

Michaela readies herself for the supportive dinner they’re having at Connor’s for Oliver, and gently pats her dress. She’s fidgety, because she’s worried.

She grabs the gift and the flowers she’d gotten for Oliver, and hopes they don’t seem strange. She knows Laurel got him something too, so at least she won’t be the only one.

This matters, she thinks. It’s a performance, but not to conceal secrets, or to protect herself. It’s about something much more important than that—friendship.

Michaela thinks she might take back what she’d said about them all being friends, because they’re a lot more than that now. They’re family forged in fire and death.

And hey, Michaela thinks, staring at herself in the mirror, families don’t always like each other.

It’s an apt metaphor, she decides.

~~

Laurel’s hand is at her back, almost guiding her forward, even though it isn’t touching her so much as hovering at the small of her back.

Michaela sees the look Wes sends Laurel, and she’s pleased. At least there are some things Laurel doesn’t tell Wes.

“It’s really nice to see you all again,” Oliver says, smiling slightly.

“You don’t have to pretend with us,” Michaela says sweetly, going in for a hug, even though her gifts for him are still in her hands. “Here,” she says, handing them over when they pull apart.

“Nice flowers,” Oliver says. “Thank you.” He stares down at the gift, like he’s not sure he wants to open it yet. It’s okay, Michaela thinks. It’s a care package, designed for self-care and comfort, and she’s sure he doesn’t want to open that can of worms up now anyway.

“Connor said they’re your favorite, and I hope they are, or we’re going to have words, aren’t we Connor?” Michaela says, sending a look at Connor, who just shrugs and smiles weakly.

“They are,” Oliver assures her, smiling at the almost vicious look on Michaela’s face.

Since that was her intention, Michaela feels a warmth settle in her stomach. Good.

Laurel goes in for a hug next, and Michaela makes a spur of the moment decision when Laurel settles back at her side. She reaches for Laurel’s hand, holding it gently, proudly.

If Laurel can be sneaky and possessive, then Michaela can make a legitimate claim.

No one misses the handholding, but no one deigns to comment either, and so Michaela lets out a sigh of relief when they all turn to walk to the dining table.

Laurel doesn’t let go of her hand, like Michaela’s almost afraid she will. Instead, she holds on firmly, and squeezes gently.

Michaela is hit by one intense, all-consuming thought.

Michaela thinks she might love her.

~~

They joke over dinner, and then Oliver gets serious, and tells them the truth of what’s going on, though he’s optimistic. “It’s manageable,” he says. “I caught it early.”

Connor’s a nervous wreck sitting next to him, even though he already knows all of this.

Michaela thinks he might love Oliver, and if that’s true? Yeah, he’s right to be terrified out of his mind.

“It’s all going to be okay,” Oliver says, reaching out and grabbing Connor’s hand, like he’s trying to comfort _him_.

Pretend for Oliver, Michaela wants to scream. _Be strong_.

Michaela glares at Connor, and he looks at her then, like he can feel the force of her will.

Somehow, he understands what she means, and he smiles.

“Yeah, everything’s going to be just fine,” Connor says, looking sideways at Oliver, and yes, this is going to be hard for them.

Michaela reaches for Laurel’s hand again, this time under the table.

It’s easy to forget about stuff like this when you’re worrying about murder and prison, but life keeps going on, and that’s not always a good thing.

But at least, Michaela thinks, it’s still going on.

~~  
They go back to Laurel’s place that night, and Michaela kisses her, nearly tackling her before they even get the door open, which just leads to a giggling, messy struggle all the way to bed.

Michaela’s pretty sure she hit her thigh on Laurel’s door handle, and that might hurt tomorrow, but right now all she can feel is a humming in her blood and a vibration in her bones.

“Hey,” Laurel says breathily, which only serves to make Michaela want this faster, harder, _now_. “Slow down for a second.”

“We can talk later,” Michaela points out. “I want to be with you _now_.”

Laurel smiles then, and acquiesces.

After, when they’re lying together, tangled in each other’s limbs, Laurel reaches for something on her bedside table, and hands it to Michaela.

Michaela takes it, and opens the little box up. “It’s a key,” she states.

“To my apartment,” Laurel explains. “Since sometimes you get here before me when we decide to meet here, and—“

“You don’t have to over explain,” Michaela says. “Thank you,” she tilts her head to the side and kisses Laurel’s cheek.

Michaela should stop there, but she doesn’t. “I love you.”

Michaela can’t believe she’d let the words slip out like that, can’t believe that she’s that incredibly _foolish_ , but she doesn’t get far.

Without hesitation, Laurel replies. “I love you too.”

Michaela wants to laugh, because this entire situation is ridiculous.

It’s a game; it’s not love, not _real_.

But somewhere along, Michaela realizes, that’s exactly what it became.

And when Laurel pulls her closer, cuddling her slightly, Michaela can’t quite manage to muster up any regret.

No, she thinks, this is real, and this is _right._

 


End file.
